Avery
by eternalheroes
Summary: John knew that Sherlock was fond of the strangest things: various body parts, crime scenes, serial killers, wayward experiments, the like.Therefore, he really shouldn't have been surprised upon finding out that Sherlock was fond of children, yet, somehow, he still was.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock knew John was mad. Mad at him, yes, but more mad at himself.

It had been a particularly gruelling case that had lasted for almost a week. Sherlock had been either in deep concentration or running around London for the entire time. John had slept most nights, but Sherlock hadn't slept during the entire case and hadn't eaten more than the occasional piece of toast. It all caught up to him in the most inconvienient time: right as they had finally spotted the criminal and were chasing him down. John had been ahead for once, being closer to the suspect at the time, and hadn't seen Sherlock falter, or he would have insisted that he sit down, and rest.

As it was, Sherlock had kept going, ignoring his body's needs as only he could. He was only faintly aware that he was running slower than usual, and that he'd been almost shaking with exhaustion, and as a result he had worked himself into a collapse, cursing his transport as his knees buckled and he fell against a brick wall.

Lestrade had arrived twenty minutes later -his timing impeccably slow, as always- only to find his suspect subdued by John, who had trussed him up better than a turkey, and Sherlock a couple blocks away, barely even conscious. He had tried to stop them from taking him to a hospital, but it had been a little difficult after he had lost consciousness. He was awoken later by John yelling about malnutrition and dehydration and how he was never going to miss another meal, which Sherlock knew John was only doing because he blamed himself somehow, but it didn't stop John from doing it. And now Sherlock was stuck in the flat , forced to rest. To add insult to injury, Lestrade and John were now leaving to the Yard, and trying to convince him to babysit.

Babysit. Of all things.

"Come on Sherlock, it's only for the day. I swear she won't bother you much. You won't, will you Avery?" he asked, looking at his daughter. She nodded and smiled at Sherlock.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "And how do you know I won't use her in one of my experiments?" he asked. He wouldn't, but Lestrade didn't need to know that.

"Because if you do, I'll never give you a single case to work on ever again." Lestrade answered. "Please Sherlock, I would take her to her ordinary babysitter, but she's sick. I promise I won't ask this of you ever again."

It was a promise he would be breaking, although Sherlock wouldn't really mind when he did.

John and Lestrade left, leaving the flat empty except for the two figures by the sofa. Sherlock turned back to his computer, completely ignoring the girl in front of him.

"What are you doing?" Avery asked, leaning in to look. Being the second of two children, she was quite used to being ignored. But it didn't stop her for trying to get their attention.

Sherlock turned away. "Nothing," he replied coldly. Children, he thought. I don't understand how anyone can like them, they're so whiny and disruptive and stupid.

"It can't be nothing," Avery said insistently, jolting him out of his reverie.

"What did you say?" Sherlock asked, pausing in his typing.

"You can't physically be doing nothing. It's impossible. You'd have to be dead to be doing nothing and even then you would be lying down or something," Avery explained, staring him straight in the eye.

Sherlock stared. The girl reminded him of someone. The way she spoke with absolute confidence. The stubborn look in her eye. He thought it might be Lestrade, she was his daughter after all, but after a second he realized who it was. And he was surprised.

She reminded him of himself. And this was something that Sherlock had never seen before. Everyone else was either too stupid, too slow, or too dumb, but this child was bright. She had potential, unlike the rest of her hopeless race.

And so he explained all of what he was doing to her, every bit, and marvelled in the way she could listen attentibely to him for hours. He had heard that children were eager to learn, but he generally avoided them, considering them to be even duller than most adults. But he realised that he liked the unwavering attention. And he decided to do something he'd never done before.

He decided to teach her how to deduce.

John unlocked the door, then paused. He could hear voices coming from the room, deep in conversation. He snuck up the stairs and burst into the flat with Lestrade right behind him, only to see Sherlock talking to Avery. He glanced at Lestrade, bewildered. Since when had Sherlock talked with children?

"We're back!" John said, for a lack of anything better to say.

Avery started, then looked at Sherlock. Sherlock nodded almost encouragingly, which blew John's mind away. Who was this new Sherlock?

Avery tentatively stepped forward. "Rough day at work, Dad?"

John groaned inwardly. She didn't know the half of it. They'd gotten to the station only to see a mob of people blocking the entrance. They'd had to wait for an hour despite Lestrade working there, for the mob to clear up, by which time Lestrade had gotten some kid's juice spilled on him. They'd finally managed to get to Lestrade's office, only to find that his chair had mysteriously disappeared from his office, and Donovan somehow had an extra chair in her's that was being occupied by her niece. So they were forced to stand the entire time, and John was now desperate for a chair.

Avery looked at her dad for a while, during which John and Lestrade had exchanged confused glances, and then she had finally spoke.

"You've been standing the whole time, haven't you?" Avery said. "You have a chair in the office, why didn't you sit? You've waited in a crowd, you've been stressed, and ew, you've gotten juice spilled on you. How'd that happen?" she wrinkled her nose in disgust.

Or maybe she does know half of it, John thought. Out loud, he said, "Has Sherlock been giving you lessons or something?"

He was half joking, but Avery answered seriously: "Oh yes, he's really smart. He's teaching me how to 'deduce',"

"Because that's just what we need," Lestrade muttered sarcastically. "Another Sherlock. God help us,"

John snickered.

Avery tugged on her father's sleeve. "You didn't answer my question. Can Sherlock babysit me again? Please?"

Lestrade looked at Sherlock. "Have you honestly been using her in an experiment? Because she's the only person that has ever begged to spend more time with you,"

Sherlock scowled. "Of course not. She's just brighter than all of your officers put together. You should actually teach her something once in a while,"

"Well, is it okay with you?" Lestrade asked. "If she stays with you next time, I mean,"

Sherlock hesitated. He did enjoy having someone actually intelligent to teach, but she interfered with The Work. And The Work was the most important.

"Whatever," he said, turning back to the computer. Lestrade grinned.


	2. Chapter 2

The next day, John finally allowed Sherlock to go back to crime scenes, which John thought was far too early and Sherlock far too late. Sherlock had bustled out of the flat as soon as he had seen Lestrade calling and had arrived ten minutes later. John had pulled up in a cab five minutes after that.

"Jeez Sherlock," he said. "Can't you at least wait for me?"

But Sherlock had already gone off to the crime scene with his customary swish of a coat. John shook his head, but couldn't stop the smile that was forming. Sherlock would always be Sherlock, and the lack of malnutrition wasn't going to change a thing.

However, John soon realised that Sherlock, despite being under the watchful eye of him and Mrs. Hudson, had managed to stay malnourished.

John had been strolling through the park, it had been a wonderful day, which was something Sherlock never took the time to appreciate. But he did, and he was thinking about how the park would be a lovely place to be in if it weren't for the dead body that he was going to encounter soon.

Mycroft had been right, loathe as it was for him to say it. John had seen the battlefield; he'd seen people wounded, people crying and begging for the pain to stop, and he had seen people dying. When he'd come back to London, he'd missed the thrill and adrenaline he'd gotten from being in the army. He never thought London could provide the same thing. He'd never known before, just how many crimes took place in the city. It saddened him a bit, but not for very long, because then he would be running after criminals with Sherlock right in front of him and he'd feel great, ridding the city of criminals while it gave him the excitement he needed.

Yet there were some times where John longed for peace and quiet most of all, and the park was just so.

He had finally made it to the crime scene only to see Avery by her father's side. He had been a little bit worried, after all, Avery was only twelve, and hardly old enough to be seeing dead bodies lying about, but Lestrade had put that worry to ease.

"I was worried that the dead bodies would frighten her," he had admitted as Sherlock inspected the corpse. Today it was a woman in about her fifties, who had apparently committed suicide. "But she was fine. Even made a few good observations about how her clothes were rumpled, meaning that she lived alone with no one to impress,"

"Let's just hope she doesn't turn into Sherlock and starts liking corpses more than live people," John had replied.

Sherlock had walked over to them and had started rattling off deductions about how the woman had no affairs or lovers and how she had been killed not for her money because there really was no motive, she was just a random pick off the street.

He was coming to the part about how exactly the murderer had killed her with a club from behind and how he was rather tall and left-handed when he suddenly stopped.

"Sherlock?" John had prompted. When he received no response, he had asked, "Something wrong with the evidence?"

There had been nothing wrong with the evidence, but, as Sherlock would've said if he hadn't collapsed, there was plenty wrong with the ground, as it was now bent at an alarming angle. 46.02° in fact, Sherlock had mused at the time. Why would it be that particular degree?

John had barely managed to catch the detective before he cracked his head on the ground. "Sherlock, what's wrong?" he had asked, concerned. "You said that you would tell me if you weren't feeling well!"

"I was feeling fine, John," Sherlock murmured. "Until the ground decided to go at a 46.02° angle."

John let out an exasperated sigh. "Oh for god's sake. I thought you were eating! Mrs. Hunson said that every time she brought you something you had eaten it! Where did that food go?"

Avery had suddenly shuffled her feet and had refused to look anyone in the eye.

Lestrade groaned. "Don't tell me," Lestrade had said, looking at his daughter. "You ate it?"

"Whenever the landlady brought food he just told me to eat it 'cause he wasn't hungry," she'd said sheepishly. "I didn't know!"

John had groaned. "Well now we've got no choice but to go back to the flat," he'd said, "I hope you're proud of yourself Sherlock,"

"Why?" he asked now, looking at Sherlock. He had managed to coax some food down the detective's throat earlier, after threatening him with no cases for a month, throwing away his nicotine patches, and even calling Mycroft. Sherlock had gulped down the food in five minutes flat, and then had whisked off to the living room couch to sulk. "Why don't you eat?"

Sherlock looked sour. "Because digestion slows me down," he said. "We've been over this,"

"But digestion doesn't slow you down," John pointed out. "You just think it does."

"Do you really think I'm supposed to do legwork with a stomach full of food?" Sherlock sneered.

"Well you can't very well do legwork if you're going to collapse halfway through," John retorted. He thought for a moment. "Look Sherlock. Since you insist that digestion slows you down, then eat six small meals a day. That way you can still do legwork, and instead of doing a lot of digestion your stomach will only have to do a little,"

Sherlock huffed. "Sounds distasteful,"

"It's either that or me force-feeding you with a baby spoon everywhere we go," John said, grinning, "I'm sure Donovan and Anderson would love that. 'Does wittle baby Sherwock not want his food?'"

Sherlock sent him a hate-filled glare. "Fine," he snarled.

"Good," John said gleefully, celebrating his victory. "We'll start tomorrow,"


	3. Chapter 3

John had no idea that a box of chocolates could cause so much trouble, but apparently, it could because anything was possible when it was Sherlock.

The box of chocolates was delivered to their door by Lestrade the day after Sherlock had collapsed in the park. John answered the door, ready to punch the man's face out if he was calling about a crime, when Lestrade held up the box of chocolates.

"Avery asked me to give these to him," Lestrade said, handing them to John. "But I doubt he'll eat them, so, I guess they're yours,"

"Avery?" John asked, frowning, "Why would she give Sherlock a box of chocolates?"

"Because she doesn't know him very well," Lestrade suggested. "I just told her he wasn't eating, and she told me to get him chocolates because, 'No one can hate chocolates!'"

"You're not bribing me to let him go down to a crime scene, are you?" John glared.

"No, not at all. This was Avery's idea. But, it would be helpful if he could just..."

"No," John snapped. "He needs to eat, not to go investigating your crime scenes,"

"Alright, alright," Lestrade held his hands up in surrender. "But it was worth a try..."

"No, it really wasn't," John answered, closing the door.

"Who was that?" Sherlock called down to him from his roost on the couch. He had been spending all his time there and was milking being malnourished for all it was worth, insisting that John fetch everything he needed. And John decided to go along with it, hoping that if he did, then Sherlock might actually get some rest. He was, however, starting to find out that it was not worth it.

"Just Lestrade," John said, walking back up the stairs into the flat.

Sherlock immediately sat up. "Did he bring a case?" he asked excitedly.

"Nope, just these," John said, holding up the box of chocolates. He then tossed them on to the couch.

Sherlock picked the box up, examined it, then sniffed and tossed it back to John. "Dull," he said, turning back to his laptop.

"Of course you would be more excited over a murder than a nice present." John muttered. "You know, have you ever considered..."

"What?" Sherlock asked, his gaze not leaving his computer screen.

"...Nevermind," John said, leaving. Sherlock didn't press him, instead focussing on typing.

Over the next few days, John found himself indulging in the chocolates whenever Sherlock was being particularly trying. He reminded himself to thank Lestrade for bringing the chocolates when they had prevented him from punching Sherlock right in the face after he had turned away three cuppas in a row insisting that he had brewed them incorrectly.

The chocolates were actually very good and John started rationing them. There were twenty-six chocolates in all and John figured that if he ate no more than one a day, they would last a month, and he wouldn't become noticeably thicker. However, despite Sherlock's disinterest in the chocolates, John did sometimes come home to find less of them in the box than when he had left.

For some reason, John didn't feel offended and was instead glad that Sherlock was at least eating something.

When Sherlock finally got back to investigating crime scenes, John made sure he ate a full breakfast before going. While Sherlock was eating, John went to eat another chocolate, only to find that there were only two left. He could've sworn that there had been at least seven when he went to bed.

Nevertheless, he brought them both out of the box and gave Sherlock one while eating one himself. Sherlock glanced at it and turned back to his toast. "What did you bring those out for?"

"For you to eat one," John replied. "They're really quite good, are you sure you don't want it?"

Sherlock snatched the chocolate up and popped it into his mouth. Then he stood up and practically ran out the door. "Let's go, Lestrade will be waiting."

John could only follow, shaking his head.

"So, we've figured out that this woman was named Ethel Marshall." Lestrade said at the crime scene. "She was married to Tom Marshall, but they divorced after a year of being married. She didn't have any known boyfriends, but she had a brother who lives in Canada. She worked at a sweet shop in Vauxhall..."

"Speaking of sweet shops," Sally butt in, looking at Sherlock, "Did you really get a box of chocolates from little Avery?"

"Perhaps I did, perhaps I didn't, what does it matter to you?" Sherlock said, kneeling down to examine the body.

"Well, look at that!" Sally burst out. "It looks like you have a little admirer Freak!"

"Wait, a what?" Anderson asked, having just walked into the room.

"Lestrade's little daughter Avery admirers the Freak!" Sally exclaimed.

"Oh, does she now?" Anderson said, a grin spreading across his face.

"Oh, this is just great. Are you two going to be solving crimes together now? I never had you down as a pedophile before, but it does make sense..."

"Enough!" Lestrade commanded. "Sally, Anderson, go wait outside. Sherlock, just continue..."

"I have everything I need," Sherlock replied coldly, before walking briskly out the door.

There was a knock on the door.

"Going to get it?" John asked Sherlock, who was back to sulking on the couch. He hadn't worked on anything to do with the case ever since coming back to the flat and was instead insulting the people on the telly.

Sherlock didn't respond.

"Oh for god's sake." John said, frustrated, "I'm sick of this Sherlock. You're fine now, you can get up and do your own chores, or you can stay at home and watch telly but you are not going to crime scenes if you can't even open the door for someone!"

He waited, expecting Sherlock to ignore him, or say something snide, but Sherlock got up and walked to the door.

John blinked. That was easier than he thought it would be.

But as soon as he heard who was at the door he wished that he had answered it and not left Sherlock to do it.

"Hi Sherlock!" Avery said, sounding bright and chipper.

"She wants to see what you're working on," Lestrade explained.

Sherlock looked at them for a few seconds before slamming the door in their faces. Even John, who had been expecting such a reaction, cringed.

"Sherlock!" John ran down the stairs and flung the door open, prepared to apologize to Lestrade ten times over, but there was no one there. Lestrade and Avery had already left.

"Sherlock! You can't just do that!" John exclaimed, whirling around to face the detective in the eye.

Sherlock blinked. "Not good?" he asked.

John sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. He could feel a headache coming along already in the form of a rather tall consulting detective.

"Yeah," he said. "A bit not good,"


	4. Chapter 4

John had no idea how exactly Sherlock remembered things such as all 267 types of tobacco ash, when he couldn't remember things such as simple etiquette. John spent his entire day drilling Sherlock as to how exactly he should apologize to Avery when they next saw her. Apologies turned out not to be Sherlock's thing

Sherlock would say that he had probably been taught but had since deleted the information, but John didn't believe him. How could someone simply delete memories? They simply didn't work that way.

John tried to point this out to Sherlock the next afternoon, but was simply called an idiot in about 50 different ways, causing him to storm out of the flat in frustration. He crashed at Sarah's that night. Sarah was amazing in that way: he'd burst into her flat and she wouldn't ask any questions, but just let him stay over.

"He should be glad that I found her, or I'd have killed him by now," John grumbled, walking back to their flat. He found Sherlock getting ready to leave. "Where are you going?" John asked.

"To a crime scene. Lestrade called," Sherlock explained, securing his scarf around his neck.

"You want me to go too?" John asked, not really sure what Sherlock wanted.

Sherlock looked at him curiously. "If you want to," he said, which was as nice as Sherlock ever got.

"I'll go," John said. "Now, let's go over the apology."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Not now, I have to get going!"

"Now, Sherlock," John said, stepping in front of the detective and trying to make himself look as tall as possible. "Or you don't go at all,"

Sherlock looked for a moment as if he wanted to just push John out of the way and be on his way, but he sighed and obliged. "I mention what I did wrong, then I apologize for it, and give a reason for why I was acting like such a bad little child," he said sarcastically. "Now let's go,"

John sighed. He wasn't sure whether to be angry about how sarcastically Sherlock said it or relieved that he did it in the first place.

I'm going to have a hell of a time getting him to apologize in front of Lestrade, John realized.

As it turns out, John needn't have worried. Lestrade had come up with a plan of his own to get Sherlock to be civilized. Avery was standing right next to him and he blocked Sherlock's way to the crime scene.

"You're not going until you apologize Sherlock," he said sternly.

"It's fine Dad," Avery muttered from behind him, not meeting Sherlock's gaze.

"No, it isn't!" John said. "What he did was unacceptable and he is going to apologize for it, aren't you Sherlock?" he asked, nudging the detective forward.

"She said it was fine!" he protested.

"Well even if she said it was, it very bloody well isn't, so go on, say it!" John retorted.

Donovan and Anderson were starting to look on with interest. Sherlock seemed to notice this, as he became even more stubborn.

"Isn't she supposed to be at school?" Sherlock asked, clearly stalling for time at this point.

"It's vacation," Lestrade responded. "Now, go on, do it."

Sherlock took a deep breath and swept his gaze across the room. Instead of deducing like he usually did, however, he glared at everyone in the vicinity as if daring them to judge him. Anderson seemed a little intimidated, but Donovan simply stared back with equal ferocity. After a short stare-off, Sherlock gave up on her and turned to Avery.

"I... uh," he stuttered. "I slammed the door on you yesterday," He looked at John for guidance. John nodded approvingly. "And that was bad and I'm sorry," he continued. He appeared to pause for a second to think about what came next, then said as fast as he could, "I-was-just-tired-at-that-moment-because-I-hadn't- slept-in-about-five-days-and-I'm-sorry-can-I-get-t o-the-crime-scene-now-Lestrade?"

John glowered at Sherlock disapprovingly. That last bit hadn't been respectful in the slightest! He was about to pull Sherlock away and tell him off when Avery said in a perfectly cheerful voice: "Apology accepted. Now, do you want to hear about everything I deduced from the crime scene?"

Sherlock nodded, a bit surprised, and Avery started rattling off deductions as fast as she could. John noticed Donovan and Anderson cracking up in the back of the room, and found himself smiling too. He stopped, however, when Sherlock shot him a glare. The same technique did not work on Donovan and Anderson, who simply couldn't stop laughing, even when Avery had stopped her deductions. They were probably making horrible jokes about Sherlock the pedo, John realized, and the smile immediately slipped off his face. Sherlock being teased, he could stand, and understand, seeing as he did it sometimes, but Sherlock being accused of being a pedophile, John wasn't going to tolerate. Luckily, before he could say anything, Lestrade ordered them away, and took Sherlock to the crime scene.

They filed into the room, Sherlock sweeping his gaze across it. John tried to see what Sherlock saw.

They were in a dance club. There was a bar in the corner, and trash all over the floor, John guessed it was because no one had come in to clean it since it had been marked off as a crime scene. A body of a young man was lying on the floor. He had cropped brown hair and was smooth shaven. Two parallel cuts were on his throat, and blood had streamed down the side of his neck to create a puddle of blood on the floor.

John looked at him closely. Was he a doctor? Engineer? Was he married, single, or dating? He tried to observe what Sherlock did, but couldn't, and ended up giving up. Deducing was Sherlock's thing, not his.

"I called you about this murder because it's the Death Dealers' signature killing style: two horizontal knife slits on the throat." Lestrade told them.

"Sorry, who?" John asked, trying to keep a straight face. What sort of gang name was The Death Dealers?

"The Death Dealers," Sherlock said. "They're a gang that does every crime, from murder to theft."

"They always choose the most valuable things to steal and the most famous people to kidnap," Lestrade added. "Apparently they're too good for 'common people', which is why I called Sherlock, because I can't find anything 'special' about this person," he gestured to the guy on the floor.

"What have you found out about him?" Sherlock asked, kneeling down to examine the body.

"Well, according to his credit card, his name is David Ash. He's 27-years-old, and lives here, in London. That's about all we can figure out. There's nothing else really interesting about him, which is what I hoped you could figure out, Sherlock,"

Sherlock knelt down, next to the body and began examining. Avery watched him enthusiastically, noting everything he did. John for some reason, found her enthusiasm exhausting.

"I can't believe she still likes him," John muttered to Lestrade.

"I couldn't either, and then I realized, here we are, doing the same thing," Lestrade said, sighing. "It's impossible to understand."

"So, the man is single. He isn't married, nor has any affairs. He was out drinking with his friends in this club on Friday. After everyone else left, he was attacked by someone taller than him from behind. After he was knocked out, they slit his throat." Sherlock explained.

Lestrade looked confused. "So what's special about him?" he asked.

"Well, I don't see anything 'special' about him so far, but I'm sure something will turn up," Sherlock said. "I'll be off now,"

John looked at Lestrade, but the DI was focussed on Avery instead, who was tugging on her father's sleeve. Avery seemed to be... urging him to do something.

"Alright, fine," Lestrade said eventually. "Sherlock, wait!"

Sherlock paused, looking back at them quizzically.

"I can't believe it, but, Avery wants to work on the case with you." Lestrade said, rolling his eyes. "Will you let her?"

John watched Sherlock's face closely. He first looked surprised, then confused, and then, there was an emotion that John couldn't identify, because he'd rarely seen it on Sherlock before. Sherlock was pleased. No, that wasn't the right word. He looked beyond pleased, but gratified. He doubted Sherlock had much experience feeling wanted, and now he did, and even if it was from this little girl, it was still enough to make Sherlock feel appreciated.

He watched this little ballet of emotions flit across Sherlock's features, because Sherlock could never do anything the simple way, and realized that Sherlock was just as human as the rest of them, even if it was lost to them most of the time. He needed attention, just like the rest of them. And he had been starved of it for most of his life just because he was different. Just because he was smart.

"Of course," Sherlock said, with a hint of a smile on his face. "How could I not?"

Avery cheered, and Lestrade looked over at John, the message he was sending was clear: "You did a good job of changing his attitude,"

John shook his head, and looked back at Sherlock, who was already walking away. He ran to catch up, shouting a quick good-bye to Lestrade. Sherlock was already muttering things under his breath like the normal Sherlock.

But John wouldn't forget the look on his face that proved that, yes, Sherlock was human too.


End file.
